


Scared of Me

by tuna_cowbell



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Fascism, Homophobia, Idk it's Homonat relentlessly flirting with anyone straight, Internalized Homophobia, International League of Nationalists, M/M, Non-Consensual Come Ons?, Not Canon Compliant, Slurs, Unrequited Love, Violence, all homophobia, is externalized homophobia a thing too? because it's here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuna_cowbell/pseuds/tuna_cowbell
Summary: “I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t work, honey. Inside of every homophobe is a queer waiting to be let out—and if they’re not willing to come out, I bring the party to them.”...“I don’t want you, filth. Not like this, not in any way.”
Relationships: Homonationalism&Christian Conservative, Onesided Homonationalism/Authright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	Scared of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I love the "repressed Nazi" fics as much as the next gal, but a lot of fan-work romanticizes/downplays his homophobia and I wanted to explore a piece where that wasn't the case. The exchange he and Homonat have in Centricide 6 kind of hurts. That was my initial inspiration for the piece.   
> Like most fanfic authors, I wrote this while brain dead, instead of studying.   
> Constructive criticism appreciated.

“Why do you even want him?”  
Homonationalsim and Christian Conservative lounge in the common room of the International League of Nationalists’ HQ: the conservative studying his bible, the nationalist painting his nails a political compass blue. Normally he wears acrylics, but now that he’s part of the League, sacrifices must be made. He needs to be ready for war, and although inch-long nails do great piercing damage, they make weapons wielding and other combat downright impractical.   
Homonationalist paints a second coat over his pinky and inspects it closely. “I’m sorry, my sweet Catholic schoolboy, I didn’t catch what you said.”  
“I’m Christian, not Catholic.”   
“Is there a difference?”  
Christian Conservative gasps, clutching his Bible to his chest. “Yes, there’s a huge difference! Gosh, do you not listen to any of the sermons I give you?”  
“Nah. I mostly space out.”  
Christian Conservative frowns. His face is always frowning, or furrowed, or otherwise looking stern and fatherly. It’d be something to develop a complex about if Homonationalism didn’t have his sights set elsewhere. Speaking of which:  
“I was asking why you’re so enamoured with Nazi.”  
“Why do you care? Are you jealous?”  
Homonationalism smirks. Christian Conservative sighs.   
“I’d tolerate you more easily if you weren’t always coming on to me.”  
Homonationalism clucks his tongue. “Chrissy, I’m kidding. I know you’re straighter than your cross. And that is why you just. don’t. get it,” he says, clapping his hands for emphasis.   
“I know what homosexual attraction looks like—I’ve counselled my fair share of conversion camps. Nazi’s straight. . . and he hates you.”  
Homonationalism smiles, rolling his eyes. “You might know about gays, but you don’t know about gay fascists, my friend. And you definitely don’t know about hatred.”   
“Jordan Peterson tells us to befriend the people who want the best for you. But you’re chasing a man who loathes the air you breathe. Why do you do it?”  
“Because, Christian, he’s Nazi. Not just a fascist—the fascist. The auth-right avatar. Quintessentially anti-queer. He’s what my entire life has led up to.” Homonationalism’s eyes flash. “He’s the key to winning the game.”  
“Wait—what game?”  
“The gay game. It’s easy to understand—a little like hide and seek. Do you want to know how it works?”  
“I don’t think so, but you’re probably going to tell me.”  
Homonationalism sets down his bottle of nail polish, pushing off of the couch and strutting into the middle of the room. He spins around, facing his Christian compatriot and sweeping his arms through the air.   
“Every day, a fascist wakes up in the morning, looks himself in the mirror, and promises himself that he’ll keep lying. He heads out into the world, decrying degeneracy, presenting himself as straighter than his Nazi salute, but it’s only a role he plays. Deep down, he’s aching. He longs for the touch of another man. Only, he can’t ever admit it.  
“The game doesn’t start when it’s played only with prudes. Nobody makes the first move. It only becomes fun when someone like me shows up—someone willing to bare themselves to the world. To offer the answer to these men’s problems.”  
“A gay man.”  
“Not just any gay man. A degenerate. Someone who’ll play along, letting the closet cases spew their lines about filth and faggotry. It’s practically foreplay. They’ll grit their teeth and clench their fists, but in the end, they’re as cock-hungry as the rest of us.”  
Conservative Christian wrinkles his nose.   
“I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t work, honey. Inside of every homophobe is a queer waiting to be let out—and if they’re not willing to come out, I bring the party to them.”  
“You think Nazi’s repressed?”  
“Oh, baby, Nazi’s the worst of them all. That’s why laying him will be my crowning achievement. It’ll prove that I truly am the fiercest queen the first world has ever seen!”  
“What if you can’t? ‘Lay’ him, I mean.”  
Homonationalism considers the question. He pictures Nazi: A sharp-edged man in sharp-looking uniform, he glares at the world like it owes him something. Like he’s going to reclaim it. He’s not the only one who has something to prove.  
“Don’t even worry,” Homonationalism says, quietly. “I will.” 

…

“Heeeey, Nazi. How’s my favourite fascist?” Homonationalism croons into his phone. Christian Conservative is an ineffective homophobe, and an amazing right-wing wingman—he gave up Nazi’s number after only an hour of being badgered. Now, Homonationalism lays on his bed, kicking his feet back and forth. On the other end of the line, Nazi groans.   
“What do you want?”  
“I was wondering if you’re free tonight,” Homonationalism says. “We can hang out! You can talk battle strategy, regale me with your war stories. Step on my throat.”  
Silence on the other end.   
“I’m not hearing a ‘no’. Let’s make this easy for you, darling: I’ll get all dolled up and come over at eight. We can hang out at your place, and whatever happens, happens!”  
That gets a response: “Come around here and I’ll torch you like the faggot you are.” Homonationalism laughs.   
“What passion! Baby, you don’t need to torch anything—you’ve already got me burning up. You’re despicable and I utterly love it.”  
“I bet you do,” Nazi retorts. “You like subjugation, you piece of trash. I could threaten you with a knife and you’d just bare your neck to me.”  
“Let me come over, Nazi,” Homonationalism whines.  
“You come anywhere near me, and I’ll give you exactly what you deserve.”  
“Great! It’s a date.”   
He hangs up before Nazi can reply. Grinning, he jumps off the bed and races to his closet to pick out his outfit for the night. 

…

The clothing decisions don’t take long; most of Homonationalism’s wardrobe is tight pants and skimpy tops. He puts on black pleather pants, a pink button-up (though, it’s mostly buttoned-down), and an intentionally obnoxious amount of eyeshadow. Soon enough, it’s time for him to head out.  
All the nationalists are holed up in Ancapistan for the time being, to keep an eye on their anarchist counterparts and for easier access to weapons suppliers. Homonationalism fashion-model-strides in his shit-kicking boots, keeping easy footing on the broken-up concrete. He sways the whole way to Nazi’s front door, leans against the door frame, and presses the bell.   
When Nazi answers, he’s still in uniform, holster at his hip. God, you have to admire the man’s commitment. He looks Homonationalism up and down, mouth splitting into a grin, and it’s like watching a wound snap its stitches.   
“You degenerate, you actually came,” he says.  
There’s a cheap line sitting in Homonationalism’s throat—something about Nazi knowing just how to make him come—but his nerves turn it to bile. He exhales, forcing a smile, batting his eyes as he stares into the ground. Repurposing his self-consciousness into something bashful, seductive.  
“Will you let me in?” he asks quietly.  
Nazi steps to the side, letting the fellow fascist enter. Homonationalism tries to act cool, but stepping into Nazi’s home is like walking into a museum from an alternate reality. Paraphernalia covers the walls—flags and banners both new and old, propaganda posters, framed portraits of infamous human figures related to his cause.   
“Nice place.”  
“Thanks.”  
It’s the first word Nazi says that isn’t drenched in disgust. Homonationalism turns to see that he’s also admiring the walls, the shadow of a smile tugging his lips. Nazi’s hot when he’s angry, but when he’s happy, he’s plain handsome. The fire in his eyes turns pure and clean-burning; it makes Homonationalism’s heart swell.   
“Was it hard to collect everything?” he asks.  
“Hell yes,” Nazi says, hands on his hips, eyes still on the collection. “People love to cry about everything I’ve destroyed, but after Hitler, anything remotely resembling my history was being wiped from the earth. I fought for it; I lost men so I could keep these things. You wouldn’t know what it’s like—wackies haven’t had to bear history the same way—but war takes a lot from you. A lot out of you.”  
“Not you, though. You’re so strong—you’ve fought back.”  
“Damn right I have.”  
As they talk, Homonationalism inches closer. Nazi sighs.   
“As crazy as it sounds, you might be the member of the League who understands this the most. Ideologies like Christian Conservative and Moderate Lee—they’re willing, but there’s further radicalization to be done. You, though—you’re Homofascism. You’re as extreme as I am.”  
“That’s right, baby,” he whispers. “I’m just like you. I understand you.”  
He slips an arm around Nazi’s waist, hooking his thumb into a belt loop, snapping Nazi out of his narcissistic daydream. Nazi tenses. Homonationalism wants to say something soothing, but before he can, Nazi throws him off like a cheap accessory. He crashes to the floor.   
He scrambles with instinctual shock then chokes it down, lounging back, looking up at Nazi through heavily mascara’d eyelashes. This is an upset, but not a failure. He just needs to push more firmly.   
He rubs a hand over his chest, down to his thigh. Nazi’s mouth twists, but his eyes don’t leave the degenerate splayed out in front of him.  
“You can take me right here, if you want.”  
Nazi hacks out a laugh. Homonationalism flinches, swallows viscously, and tilts his head up further. He reminds himself that he loves this part—the buildup of pressure before the breakdown. The waiting for the façade to break. It still feels dangerous, even after all the times he’s done it. It is dangerous—he’s been hurt enough, emotionally and physically, to know that’s true. But it’s also so beautiful, watching the cracks form. Getting to be the one to put his fingers against the outline, to tease away a space to fit through.   
“I don’t want you, filth. Not like this, not in any way.”  
It just takes a little flexibility, is all.   
Homonationalism smirks, getting to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster. Tilting his head as if to say, bless your heart, he hums, “You closet cases are so cute when you deny yourselves.”  
Nazi steps towards him. Homonationalism smiles, ready for the rageful kiss; the pressing up against the wall; the hand, frantic and powerful, groping at his fly—  
Instead, Nazi punches him in the jaw.   
Homonationalism stumbles back, hand coming to his mouth because it hurts, and because he’s surprised. He looks up at Nazi, whose face is as solid a wall as ever.   
“What’s wrong?” Nazi asks thickly. “Has the fascist fairy gotten himself into more than he can handle?”  
“Haha. Yeah—I mean, I’m kinky, but this sadism’s a bit much. Do we have a safe word?”  
“How about Unternehmen Kolibri?”  
Another blow—Homonationalism sees it coming but doesn’t move. Why doesn’t he move? Recoiling back, he feels his nose shift like a tectonic plate, and now he’s bleeding from his right nostril.   
“Do you like that?” Nazi shouts as Homonationalism backs into the wall, pressing against a swastika banner. “Do you like that, you piece of filth?”  
“No,” he whines.   
Nazi crowds in, grabbing Homonationalism by the collar, shoving him up against the wall. This is so close to everything he wanted, but it’s all wrong. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go. . . .”  
“You idiot. This is how it’s always gone.”  
Tears stumble from Homonationalism’s eyes, mixing with blood as they rush down his face. He’s wrapped up in memories that grip him tighter than Nazi’s fists: all the verbal abuse, the outright attacks. Getting into fights in the streets and getting shoved around in dimly-lit bedrooms. Roughness, no matter where he goes, what he does. A feeling of disgrace. An identity he had to slip into like a pair of fishnets, because if he didn’t turn it into his own tool, it’d be a fatal instrument used against him.   
“You fascists are so—sad,” he chokes out, words stronger than he feels. “Denying your true feelings because you’re scared of them. Scared of me.”  
“Nobody’s scared of you, fag. We just hate you.” Nazi lets go with one hand, reaching for the gun at his hip. “You’d think you’d have learned the difference by now.”  
He shoves the barrel into the bottom of Homonationalism’s chin—and Homonationalism, while his tears and blood continue to spill, does Nazi the courtesy of tilting his head back, making things easier.   
He’s a true compatriot. Right up to the end. 

. . .

The next day, the International League of Nationalists gather for their weekly debrief. They congregate around a table at HQ, everyone on time because Nazi’s a stickler for punctuality. All the chairs are filled except for one.   
Christian Conservative stares at Homonationalism’s empty spot the whole meeting but doesn’t say anything. Nazi doesn’t even acknowledge it.   
Sometimes it’s better not to ask and not to tell.


End file.
